Psychosis
by x-mariaa
Summary: 10 Year old Harry Potter is diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic. Haunted with visions of magic, and tormented by the cruel voice known to him only as, "Tom", his life is turned upside down when on Christmas night, he meets a boy named Draco, who claims to be a wizard. Dark!Harry Unhinged!Harry NOT SLASH.
1. Prologue

10 Year old Harry Potter is diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic. Haunted with visions of magic, and tormented by the cruel voice known to him only as, "Tom", his life is turned upside down when on Christmas night, he meets a boy named Draco, who claims to be a wizard.

* * *

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. I wonder if these things are necessary, or if we all simply do it because everybody else does?

 _A/N **:** Hello everybody, and welcome to my story! This is only my second attempt at writing FanFiction, so please be gentle. This story is a long one, and will follow Harry throughout all 7 years. There may be suggestive scenes if you squint, but this story is NOT slash._

* * *

 **Psychosis**

PROLOGUE

Laughter.

High pitched, swirling laughter flittered into the room. The laughs were happy, carefree, and simply everything that, that lone room, and it's sole inhabitant, were not. There was no bed. Patient 403 stood at a heavy risk for falls, after all. The mattress lay on the floor, underneath the brick-sized window. Laura White fought to hold back a shiver.

"Hello. My name is Laura, and I will be your nurse for today."

Patient 403 showed no signs of acknowledgement. Mentally, Laura chastised herself for referring to her patients as mere numbers. It was difficult not to, after all, for the sheer quantity of them. New, washed out faces came and went out of Holy Name Psychiatric Asylum on a daily basis. Some of them were rehabilitated, others transferred. The names, individuals, and faces eventually blurred into one vague identity: the patient. The Patients were not like normal people, and were best when kept at a distance.

"How are you doing this morning, Mr. potter?" she conversed, approaching the huddled figure slowly. He didn't respond. "Can you tell me your name, and date of birth?"

He made no move to answer. As the silence stretched on for nearly a minute, Laura sighed in exasperation. Perhaps he was ignoring her? Indeed, Patient 403 was only a child. A thin, scraggly haired, pathetic little thing. It was unfortunate - such a young life, over before it truly commenced. Laura glanced down at the boy's information on her clipboard. He had been admitted here for just under six years. They never rehabilitated after that long.

"Mr. Potter?" she asked, softly. "I'm here to deliver your morning care. I'm going to help you get washed up, and ready for breakfast."

Jerkily, the boy shook his head in silent refusal. It seemed that he could hear her, after all.

"Come on," Laura reached over. "Let's get you changed."

The shaking of his head intensified. Ignoring this, the young nurse laid her hand on the boy's shoulder. His sharp collarbones could be felt through his hoodie. She glanced around. Had this boy been eating? The small room was barren of any forms of food.

"Go.. go, _go away_ ," Harry Potter muttered in a withered voice. The boy's small hands twitched spastically around his neck.

"Mr. Potter? You seem distressed," Laura followed protocol. "What's bothering you?"

The boy merely continued to shake his head; a disturbing, fast motion. Despite the movement, however, his black hair hardly moved at all. The tangled mess remained glued to his head like a helmet. From underneath his bangs, a choked sob reached her ears. The situation was slowly deteriorating out of control, and she got the urge to simply walk away.

"Mr. Potter?"

This time, when she spoke, the boy looked up. Laura felt the saliva pile up in her mouth. Visibly, she swallowed, while subconsciously pulling her hand away. His eyes were a pale, ghostly, and rare shade of green. They stared back at her in such intense misery that Laura felt a tingle of unease crawl down her spine. It was an expression that did not belong on the face of one so young.

She did not know how to respond. Her hand was hanging between them rather stupidly.

The boy's lips were drier than anything she'd ever seen before; chunks of dead, peeled skin, cracked their pale surface. Worse than that, though, was the clawing. What Laura had before believed to be a mere twitch was in fact self mutilation. Methodically, Potter hacked away at the delicate skin of his neck with those overgrown, jagged nails of his.

"Get _out_ ," he repeated.

Laura stole glances back at the door. Her first priority was to stop the scratching.

Laura placed her hands around the boy's bony wrists, ignoring his dismissal. His skin was like that of a fish: wet, clammy, and somewhat unpleasant to touch. Patient 403 hardly had the time to react before Laura was firmly pulling the appendages away. Immediately, the smell of copper slapped her in the face. She fought back a grimace.

Jagged, silvery lines crossed over the boy's skin like the scratches a butcher knife might leave on a cutting board. Some of the scars stood thin, while others were thick, red, and angry, all covering his small neck. The blood smeared over it all looked almost grotesque. Letting his hands go, Laura reached for a disinfectant wipe.

"I'm going to clean this-"

Suddenly there was a strong, vice-like grip around the young nurse's neck. The sheer force of it sent her tumbling back; her head hit the tiled ground with a resounding crack. The creepy boy dug his icy, pale little fingers into his neck, and stared down at her through the curtain of his hair.

"I- I _told_ you to leave," he muttered frantically. "You wouldn't just _go away_. Tom, I'll do it now. I'll make her _go away_."

Laura tried in vain to get up. An invisible force greater than her, greater than him, seemed to root her to that spot, choking her. Her body could not move an inch. A perverse sort of a dread burst into existence as the young woman gasped for air in agony.

"I'm sorry.. I'm sorry... it's ok now..."

Around her the world faded to black, and soon enough, Laura White was no more.

Under the buzzing white light of that small, cuboidal room, Harry Potter stared down at her mangled body, while cold tears slid down his cheeks.

.

 **PSYCHOSIS**


	2. Chapter 2

10 Year old Harry Potter is diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic. Haunted with visions of magic, and tormented by the cruel voice known to him only as, "Tom", his life is turned upside down when on Christmas night, he meets a boy named Draco, who claims to be a wizard.

* * *

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. I wonder if these things are necessary, or if we all simply do it because everybody else does? There may be some suggestive scenes if you squint, but this story is NOT slash.

* * *

 **Psychosis**

CHAPTER 2: CHRISTMAS NIGHT

Snowflakes fell to the ground sparsely. On that Christmas holiday, the sky was draped in a thick, black sheet of night. The road was long; streetlights stretched down in small speckles of light far into the horizon. For the third time that night, Draco restrained himself from running his fingers through his slicked back, pale hair. Under the moonlight, the hardened strands appeared almost silver. That night could not _possibly_ have gotten worse.

The next time he laid eyes on Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, there would be hell to pay, Draco assured himself. He had been at his parent's Christmas party, just like any other year. In fact, that night had been nothing short of what Draco might wager, given he was in one of his more generous moods, to be horribly dull. Pansy Parkinson had clung to him like a parasite would to its host, the Nott's had arrived _fashionably late_ , and he had been bored nearly to tears. In conclusion: it was nothing out of the ordinary.

Then Crabbe and Goyle had showed up, with ill-concealed, twin glints of mischief in their beady eyes. When they had pulled him aside, and showed him the bottle of fire whiskey they had nicked from Goyle's father, Draco hadn't thought twice about sneaking out of the crowded ballroom, and out into the yard with his two childhood acquaintances. What was the worst that could've happened? Draco had been curious; he'd never tasted alcohol before, besides a tentative sip he'd taken from his mother's wine goblet that one time.

He was ten years old, after all. _'You're a man, now,'_ his father had said. Of course, his father couldn't know about this. His pale eyes had flickered from the snow covered yard, Crabbe and Goyle's madly grinning faces, and then to the bottle in his sweaty fingers. Despite the howling winds beyond the yard, the temperature had been toasty - courtesy of the elaborate Malfoy Family wards. He couldn't have backed out then, not in front of Crabbe and Goyle. Draco had swallowed to shake the small voice in his head that told him to stop, and raised the bottle to his lips. The second the cold glass had made contact with his skin, he was gone.

The bottle had been a bloody portkey. Immediately, he had been assaulted with a sensation so vile he hadn't the words to describe it. Unceremoniously, the boy had landed on the wet, and unforgiving pavement.

Thus, Draco found himself in his current predicament. Out here, there were no wards to warm the air. Indeed, the fierce winter breeze nipped at his nose and ears ruthlessly. Below him, the ground was covered in ice. It was cold, dark, and scary. Had he been of a lesser upbringing, Draco would have cried.

The buildings around him were unsettlingly unfamiliar; the streets were completely deserted. To make matters worse, this place he found himself in was most certainly a _muggle_ town. Draco's young face twisted into a frown of disgust. He couldn't call for the Knight Bus, for he didn't yet have a wand. He definitely couldn't knock on anybody's door to ask for help, either. The muggles would capture him, and try to steal his magic.. or so his mother used to tell him whenever he behaved particularly rotten. Draco stood a bit straighter. A worthless muggle couldn't do anything to him; they were weak, stupid, and inferior.

It was then that he saw it, just across the street: a small, hooded figure standing outside of a large building that stretched until the end of the block. Draco hesitated. If he didn't find a way home before the party was over, he'd be punished severely for it. Making his parents look bad wouldn't do. Stuffing his reddened, numb hands into his suit pockets, Draco began his trek towards the muggle.

The closer he got, the easier it became to see that the muggle was either around his age, or simply short. The huddled, trembling little figure was almost pathetic. Draco wrinkled his nose at the sight of his purpling, bare feet. Did muggles not wear shoes? He'd prepared at least ten different questions in his head: _Where are we? Might you know where I can possibly catch a train? What time is it?_

But he blurted, "Why aren't you wearing any shoes?" instead.

The muggle visibly flinched, and turned around slowly - eerily so. Immediately, Draco felt himself sneer. Did this little creep not know what lotion was? From underneath the rim of his tattered hood, a pair of dry, disgusting lips were illuminated by the flickering street lamp behind him. Draco looked at him incredulously, momentarily forgetting his predicament in favor of observing this stranger.

"I- I," his voice was small, dry, and wavering. "I don't get cold."

"Are you daft?" It was freezing. Snowflakes clung to their clothing, and ate away at their body heat.

But the muggle seemed to have dismissed him. He turned around, and walked away from the illumination of that lone street lamp, and back towards the blackness behind the large building. Draco scowled.

"I didn't want to talk to you anyways, you weird, worthless muggle!"

What did he need him for? He'd find his own bloody way home. The muggle froze in his tracks, however. He brought his hands up to his hood, and started to tremble for reasons that had nothing to do with the mean, December cold. The boy turned around, and appeared to be scratching his neck.

"Follow me.." he said.

Draco opened his mouth to further insult the creep, prepared himself to turn around, and walk away, but with this new angle he stood at, the weak light illuminated the muggle's face for the first time. He looked.. miserable. Sick and miserable, to be precise. Dry tears streaked the boy's pale cheeks. Despite himself, Draco made to follow the kid.

"You look right pathetic, crying like that," he said acidly. His mood was sour, and so he took it out on the only available target.

The boy let out a high pitched, whining sound, like that a dog would make, and scratched even more fervently at his neck. Draco scowled. For a long while, neither boy said anything. The path was long, dark, and narrow. The two walked side by side towards what appeared to be a wide opening. Unlike Malfoy Manor's extensive, immaculately kept lands, this large place appeared abandoned. Gargantuan piles of frozen snow towered above them ominously in the blackness. Under the moonlight, grotesque shadows bloomed amongst the fences and curiously shaped figures with every passing breeze. Draco clenched his hands within his pockets; he wanted to go home.

Eventually the muggle boy stopped moving. He turned towards him, and pointed a trembling finger at the ground behind him. Sniffling while cursing his runny nose, Draco peered around the short, hooded kid, and at the large lump behind him.

He felt his blood run cold.

There, contorted in a twisted heap amongst the frozen, dirt speckled snow, lay the body of a woman. Her limbs were tangled in a way that resembled some sort of macabre pretzel. Judging by the blue tint her skin had taken, rigor mortis had already kicked in; the woman's muscles had locked. Her head was wrapped in an odd, black plastic bag. A twisted, nauseating feeling settled within his stomach as he noted that she was not moving. She had an open gash in her arm; he fought back the urge to throw up.

"Help me," the muggle boy's weak, small voice snapped him out of his trance.

Without thinking twice about it, Draco Malfoy turned, and he ran. He ran and he ran, as fast as his numb feet would take him; his pounding heart danced wildly to a coward's tune. _No way_ \- there was no way in _hell_ he was sticking around back there. He was almost at the end of the alley, near the relative safety of the street, when he slipped on a patch of ill-placed ice, and came crashing down to the ground, along with any chances of escape. The street lamp seemed flicker at him mockingly.

"Wait," the voice sent a sick chill down Draco's spine.

Fear wrapped its slimy tendrils around his soul. How had that muggle caught up to him so quickly? Light footsteps crunched in the snow beside his head. He feared to turn around. Hesitantly, he glanced up.

"Tom wants you to help us," those impossibly wide eyes stared down at him. They twitched every few seconds, but the boy did not blink. "Help us."

Draco sat up, and attempted to crawl away subtly. There was a pain in his knees. This was all like a rotten nightmare, and he wished desperately to wake up. He made it quite far, too, until he felt a firm pressure around his waist.

"Get the _hell_ off of me!" he shouted, loud enough that it hurt his throat. His breath came out in a cloud of terrified condensation. His pristine, white trousers were now covered in mud; his immaculately slicked hair fell in front of his eyes in blonde wisps.

The more he struggled, the tighter the grip became, however. He was being pulled up, and onto his feet. How did that weak, scrawny muggle have more strength than him? It was infuriating, and made him want to cry tears of frustration. He was turned around like little more than a rag doll, and then his mouth went dry..

The boy hadn't moved a step.

"A- are you a wizard?" Draco asked, weakly.

Either this boy had a prodigious talent for wandless magic - which was _not_ normal - or he'd just gone completely mad, and imagined the force pulling him up.

"I had to do it.." the boy's black hair framed his downcast face. "I _had_ to do it!"

He was yelling, now. Foolishly, Draco took a tentative step forward; he didn't know why he did it. He was coming to realize that this boy wasn't entirely.. there, mentally. He licked his lips.

"Did you kill that muggle?" he asked, while exhaling shaky breaths.

A feeling of dread settled in his chest. For all that the purebloods spoke about hating muggles, nobody he knew had ever actually killed one.

"I didn't have a choice," the boy looked up at him owlishly, desperately. "If I didn't, she was going to kill _me_. Tom was going to _leave_ me."

Draco looked at him in disbelief.

"Now they're going to lock me up again, or take me to prison," the boy sobbed, scratching at himself.

" _Again_? Did the muggles have you locked up before?"

He nodded jerkily. Thin tears streamed down his cheeks. Draco almost walked away. Truly, he did. A morbid sense of curiosity kept him rooted in place, however. This was.. dangerous. Twenty four hours of his day were spent at the manor. In a way, he was locked away too. His life was the epitome of sheltered, and for once, he was going to have an adventure.

"What we've got to do is dispose of the body where nobody would think to look," Draco's voice murdered the silence.

His heart continued to pound traitorously.

"There aren't a lot of places that large, no way," he continued. "But I think I saw one earlier."

The boy across from him didn't seem to acknowledge his words, so naturally, Draco's sense of leadership took over.

"Come on, it's back here."

The two boys made their way back into the blackness of the alleyway. Even the howling winds seemed to quiet down, as if sensing the evil they were about to commit. Only the crunching of snow beneath their feet bore witness to their deed. Laying his eyes on the corpse, Draco swallowed. Snowflakes clung to her clothing and blue skin; the black bag over her head was tied tightly around her slender neck. He tried to convince himself that this was a muggle: they weren't truly human anyways, were they?

"Over there," he pointed. "Under that big pile of snow. It'll be frozen over until May. Nobody will think to look under there, and by then, you can be long gone."

The black haired boy appeared to mull this over. He whispered madly, but did not seem to be speaking to him, while lightly scratching at his neck. Draco walked over to the pile. It towered over him ominously like a white mountain. Bits of dirt and debris speckled it's surface freely.

"Unfortunately," he drawled, slowly gaining his confidence back, "it's frozen solid."

He had an idea, however..

"Can you control your wandless magic at will?"

The boy shook his head fervently. Well, so much for that idea.

"Do you mean _The Hands_?" the boy asked instead.

"The hands?" Draco repeated, in a tone that told he thought the other boy stupid.

When the kid didn't respond, Draco rolled his eyes.

"That power you used earlier to pick me up," he clarified. "Your magic."

"So it's magic.." the other boy whispered.

Draco found himself frowning deeply. So he didn't know about magic, huh? It seemed the kid was a mudblood.

"Yes, your magic," he replied in a cold tone. "I don't yet have a wand, so I can't do it myself. Make a hole in the snow pile, and we'll hide the body inside."

It was an eerie sight. Wandless magic was not unheard of, but in his young life, Draco had never held witness to anybody so adept at it. The twisted, lifeless body of the muggle woman dragged itself across the snow, and into the hole. Thin, red streaks of blood stained the ground in her wake. With cold, stiff hands, the boys adeptly grabbed at the snow, and packed it into the hole. It was trying work. Slowly enough, the corpse was erased from sight, along with any traces of the woman ever existing. They smoothed the snow over the sealed hole in an attempt to make it look natural. By the end of it all, Draco was sweating despite the cold. They sat there in the dark, catching their breath.

"What now?" he asked, while glancing over at the boy.

He didn't acknowledge him. Draco scowled.

"I'm Draco, by the way," he continued. "Draco Malfoy."

"I'm Harry Potter," the creep muttered, while fiddling with his fingers.

Draco felt his heart pound a bit harder, but narrowed his cold eyes in disbelief. Reaching over, he pushed the boy's fringe out of his face. In the process, the hood fell, too. The boy - Harry - let out a strangled sound. Surely enough, on his pale, white forehead stood the infamous scar.

Draco let his eyes roam over Potter's face. Up close, The Boy Who Lived appeared even more sickly. His eyes were bloodshot, and currently staring at him in fear. Underneath them, deep purple bags adorned his face. His cheeks were hallowed in from what could only be malnutrition, and worst of all were those dry, repulsive lips. He scoffed in disgust, before pulling his hand away from the rat's nest Potter called hair, and digging into his pockets. Even though he was wearing gloves, Draco found that he could hardly move his numb, swollen fingers.

"Here," he declared, holding out a small object to Potter. "Put it on."

It was chapstick. Potter shakily grabbed it with his index finger and thumb, and stared at it as if he had never seen anything like it before. With how putrid his lips were, Draco wouldn't be surprised if he truly never had. Slowly, he uncapped it, and sniffed it warily. Awkwardly, the boy put it on. Draco shook his head in distaste.

"So this is where you've been hiding out, Potter? The wizarding world hadn't heard of you since that night with You-Know-Who."

Potter seemed to ignore him, while staring at the chapstick in wonder. Sneeringly, Draco snatched it away, and stuffed it back into his pocket.

"Where even is this place? And why in the world have you been staying with _muggles_?" he spat the last word in disgust.

"This.. this is a hospital," Potter answered, while bringing his hands back up to his neck. Why in Merlin's name was he always scratching his neck?

"They cure the sick, and promote swift rehabilitation," he quoted hollowly.

Draco did not miss how his voice wavered in distress. He brought his knees up to his chest, and leaned his forehead against them. In the dark, miserable cold, Potter began to rock back and forth, while clawing away at his own skin. He was _barmy_ , Draco decided.

"Must be a mental hospital," Draco snorted at Potter's curled up form. "Living with the muggles must've made you go insane."

To his utter disturbance, the reply came shortly, "It is."

His brain tried to catch up with him.

"But you're the savior of the wizarding world, Potter. You're famous. They can't do that to you, can they?"

"Uncle Vernon says that all freaks belong in the asylum," his voice cracked.

"Are you not listening to me? You're _famous._ Any wizarding family would have taken you in."

"If I mention magic or Voldemort or Tom, they inject me," his rocking intensified. "They'll all gain up on me, and inject me again!"

Draco looked at the trembling form of the boy beside him. Inject him? With what? Had Potter always been unhinged in the mind, or had his mental state deteriorated after being drugged in this hospital? Nonetheless, the way that he spoke The Dark Lord's name so boldly was unsettling.

"You've mentioned 'Tom' like five times already," Draco muttered, staring at the cloudy night sky. "Who is Tom?"

Potter stopped shaking. He raised his head slightly, and looked him in the eyes. For a long while, he said nothing.

"Tom is a part of me," he said, with grave clarity, "and I am a part of Tom."

It was the closest to normal he'd sounded all night. Draco nodded, although he didn't really get it.

"He speaks to me in here," Potter pointed at his temple, as his eyes watered up in misery.

Draco opened his mouth to respond-

"He's hearing us right now.." Potter whispered.

Draco ignored the goosebumps that spread across his flesh. He kept his grey eyes locked onto Potter's green ones.

"Maybe you shouldn't tell people about Tom, Harry."

Those green eyes flickered, and only then did Draco realize he'd used the boy's given name. Either way, he had been through far too much in one night. His mind was numb. With cracking limbs, Draco stood up once anew.

"I've got to go now," he said, keeping his gaze glued on the alleyway, and the weak light at the end of it. "I need to find a way home."

Potter didn't respond, and so without hesitating, Draco walked away. Glancing over his shoulder, Potter faded away into the darkness: a lonely, creepy figure, leaning against the grave of his victim. Draco walked, and walked, until that building was far behind him. He didn't realize that he'd walked in the same direction from which he came until he came across a lone, fire whiskey bottle sitting innocently on the pavement.

Grimly, he picked the portkey up. It didn't occur to him until later on that Harry had somehow known about The Dark Lord, but not his own magic.

.

 **PSYCHOSIS**


	3. Chapter 3

10 Year old Harry Potter is diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic. Haunted with visions of magic, and tormented by the cruel voice known to him only as, "Tom", his life is turned upside down when on Christmas night, he meets a boy named Draco, who claims to be a wizard.

* * *

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. I wonder if these things are necessary, or if we all simply do it because everybody else does? There may be some suggestive scenes if you squint, but this story is NOT slash.

* * *

 **Psychosis**

CHAPTER 3: THE HOSPITAL

Tom was content. He would never admit this out loud, of course. Instead it was evident in the way that Harry's thoughts had quieted down, and how the habitual buzzing in his mind was no more. Tom was only ever content after Harry did something bad. The young boy let out a strangled sob. Looking at the now empty, bloody spot where he had killed the woman earlier, he cried in the knowledge that he had used ' _the hands_ ' again. _The hands_ did whatever Harry told them to, and Harry did whatever Tom told him to.

' _You're not done yet_ ,' an emotionless voice, as clear as day, spoke into his mind.

"But- but I did what you asked of me," Harry fell down to his bony knees, and crawled back to his corner in misery.

' _Get rid of the evidence_ ,' the voice commanded.

"She's gone, she's bloody, she's dead," Harry whispered.

His eyeballs were dry and they were itchy. He had the urge to scratch at them mercilessly. Instead, he stabbed his nails into his neck until the pain became unbearable. Tom was ordering him around again..

Harry had been able to hear Tom even in his earliest memories, for as surely as there was Harry Potter, there was Tom Riddle. When was the last time he had made a decision for himself? Harry could not remember. Whereas he was stupid, pathetic, and ugly, Tom was smart, powerful, and intelligent.

Tom never liked the Dursley's, or anybody who wasn't like him, for that matter.

' _We're better than them, Harry_ ,' he used to say. ' _A muggle's life is worth no more than_ _a swine's_.'

And so the woman had, had to die. Tom had been in a bad mood, so she had paid with her life. Had she not been so _nosy_ , this wouldn't have happened. Now the authorities would come to get him, and they'd kill him like he killed her. A fresh set of tears blurred his sight at the thought of it.

' _Do it_ ,' Tom urged.

Harry clenched his eyes so tight he saw red. He shook his head viciously.

' _This is why the Dursley's locked you away in here. Even the muggles can see how useless you are_.'

Loudly, Harry sobbed. An irrational fear clawed at his chest. Being a muggle was the worst thing one could be, Tom had said. Even the Dursley's, filthy as they were, had not wanted him. If Tom decided to leave, and escape from his mind, Harry would have _no one_.

Effortlessly, Harry summoned _the hands_ , and did as Tom said - he always did as Tom said. They seemed to tear out of his chest, and extend from his body, leaving a pleasant tingling sensation in their wake. With no hesitation, they wiped at red smears on the floor, and erased them out of existence.

' _Go on_ ,' Tom urged, softly.

Harry withdrew his bloodied hands from his neck with a sickening squelch. His head was spinning. With agonizing movements, he crawled over to the disinfectant wipes he kept next to his mattress. His wet fingers slipped off of the lid, and left ghastly red marks all over the container. He had sullied it; he'd _ruined_ it. Harry bit his lip in despair and resisted the urge to slam the thing.

Heaving in rapid, shallow breaths, he managed to get the lid open. Harry wiped his hands methodically, with a bruising force. Next came the bottle. Although he wiped it free of any traces of blood, Harry knew that it was garbage - covered in traces of himself, and that rotting woman. He would have to get his hands on a new one. For now, he did not have the will to exist. Bonelessly, he lay back on the floor next to his mattress. His eyes flickered in their sockets as he wrapped the final disinfectant wipe around his neck. Immediately, a teeth-grinding, stinging pain burst into life; his nerve endings were on fire.

It shocked his mind out of its haze, and for a blessed moment, Harry saw the world in vivid clarity. He reached up, and wrapped his hand around his neck - inflicting more pain - and wishing that this clarity could somehow last longer. It was crazy what alcohol on an open wound could do, and Harry's neck had plenty.

He didn't know for how long he lay there, staring up at the ceiling. It could have been two hours, or perhaps two days. His mouth was excruciatingly dry, and his stomach twisted in biting hunger, when a head of blonde, platinum hair stepped into his line of sight. Harry was sure he had imagined the boy, the one who knew about _the hands_ , until he reached down, and roughly hauled him up by the arm.

His world spun out of focus.

.

Draco stared at the parchment in front of him in a troubled daze. The Malfoy Family tutor droned on monotonously while his mind stubbornly refused to focus. The room was small, and sparsely furnished, compared to the grand, and lavish sights to be seen in Malfoy Manor. There were no windows; there weren't any exotic paintings. These were things that distracted from his studies, his mother had claimed. Currently, he was weighing his options: should he have chocolate, or vanilla pudding for lunch that afternoon? As he yawned a satisfying, tear jerking yawn, he scratched his neck sleepily.

Unsurprisingly, the action sprung thoughts of Harry Potter. It had been two days.. two days since he'd assisted in a murder. Draco pressed his cheek into his hand, and frowned down at the messily doodled dragon adorning his paper. On that first day, he had been numb - in denial, even. By the time night had rolled around, he had convinced himself that he'd done nothing wrong. On the second day, he was guilty. Even then, as he sat in his morning lessons, Draco forced the twinges of remorse to the back of his mind.

When he had arrived home, the party was settling down. Guests were leaving, and the closer family friends were saying their goodbyes. Although his time behind the freezing, muggle hospital had felt like an eternity, it turned out he'd only been missing for two hours. Tired, cold, and weary, Draco had snuck upstairs, changed his sullied clothing, and joined everybody else as if nothing had happened.

He snorted self-deprecatingly at the thought, earning himself a withering glare from his tutor. He scowled right back, acidly.

In the end, the portkey has been his ticket back home. He must have walked aimlessly for an entire ten minutes before he looked down at the bottle. On a whim, he opened it again, and brought it up to his lips. This time, he did take his sip, right before activating the thing again. Draco had landed in an undignified heap inside of what he had recognized to be Goyle Sr.'s office, with a foul taste in his mouth. He took the floo back to the manor's library, and the rest had been a blur.

If anything, Crabbe and Goyle owed him, now. They had gotten him into that mess, and they were going to pay up for it. As a matter of fact, Draco intended to cash in his favor today. Perhaps it wasn't wise - and it certainly was stupid - but he had decided to go and see Potter again; Crabbe and Goyle would cover for him. Certain things just didn't add up when it came to The Boy Who Lived. Draco frowned down at his paper, while adding more details to his dragon doodle.

First and foremost was the enigma posed by one Goyle Sr., who had to be just about the most insignificant man Draco had ever met. The portkey that led to Potter's location had been in the Goyle residence. How in the world was that big oaf privy to that information? As far as he knew, Harry Potter had disappeared from the face of the earth on that fateful night. Nobody was supposed to know of his location.

Draco wondered what Potter was even doing right then? Was he plotting his next evil scheme against muggle kind? He was supposed to be The Golden Boy of the wizarding world: symbol of hope for the light. Instead he ran around killing muggles; it was all wrong. The little creep was most likely hurting himself for fun, right then. Draco clenched his jaw.

"-or is what I'm saying not interesting enough for you, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco blinked.

"No, I understand quite well, sir," he didn't know what was going on, but he would be damned if he let this old fool make him look like an idiot.

"I don't know what's on your mind, Mr. Malfoy, but you've got great potential," the tutor sniffed. "You may take the rest of the day off, on the condition that you come back with a clear head tomorrow."

His tutor gazed at him expectantly, as if assuming that Draco would insist he complete the lesson. It was the proper thing to do, after all; however, Draco scowled, and began to pack his belongings. When he glanced down at his parchment, he paled. Messily scribbled over the dragon's head was a black bag, tied firmly around the neck. Images of a thin woman, laying unmoving in the snow flashed through his mind. Draco snatched the paper up, and stuffed it into his bag. He gazed darkly at the man as he left.

Bloody fool.

"I fully expect you to have all of your homework completed."

Draco slammed the door.

The first thing he needed to do was get to an empty room without his mother's scrutinization. If she noticed he was carrying around his lesson bag, she would start asking questions. He couldn't very well walk around with a firewhiskey bottle in his hand though, could he? No, the bag had to stay. His thoughts whirled as he made his way through the elaborate halls of Malfoy Manor. As far as his parents were concerned, he was spending the evening with the Crabbes, along with Goyle. If they caught sight of him, they'd try to _see him off_ ; thus, anytime that he heard voices, or footsteps, he took a detour, confident in his goal.

Eventually it stood before him: the library. The place was massive, and lined up with thousands of books, ranging from bedtime stories to the occult forms of the dark arts. It was the one place in the entire manor that was vulnerable - an escape route, of sorts. From this room, they could apparate away should any trouble ever corner them. Draco wasn't escaping from trouble, he thought grimly. Instead, he was heading towards it, like a brainless fish swimming into a net.

He made his way towards the rear bookcases. They towered over him, and held shady-looking books in their shelves. They emitted a dark aura that did little to calm his troubled mind, as he looked towards the library door nervously, opened his bag, and brought the firewhiskey bottle to his lips. Almost immediately, the world started to spin.

This time, Draco was proud to say, he landed on his feet, although the nausea was certainly there. The first thing he noticed was the stark shift in temperatures. Outside it was cold, unfortunately. On the ground below him, tiny icicles clung to the frosted pavement, while snowflakes drifted down from the sky lazily. As he breathed in through his nose, the chilly air stung at his nasal cavity. Pulling his green, woven scarf tighter around him, he began his trek down the long road.

Under daylight hours, the entire landscape appeared different. The muggle residences surrounding him no longer gazed back ominously, and the large hospital at the end of the block seemed almost _inviting_. Draco counted the streetlights as he passed them by, and clenched his gloved hands within his robe pockets. Should he truly have come here? As he passed the alleyway next to the hospital, the one leading back into the yard, Draco kept his grey eyes glued to the ground. Far too soon for his liking, he was in front of the large, glass doors, and not at all ready. Swallowing thickly, he pushed them open, and made his way to the front desk. From the corners of their eyes, the muggles all seemed to stare at him.

"Hello," he greeted, dryly. "I'm here to see my.. _brother_ , Harry Potter."

The woman at the desk looked ancient. Her face was more wrinkled than that of any goblin's Draco had ever seen. Perhaps she might try and consider finding herself a job at Gringotts? He chuckled darkly.

"Who are you here to see?" the muggle spoke with an attitude, and looked up at the sound of his laughter.

"Harry Potter," Draco repeated.

"Potter.. potter," she muttered, while flipping loudly through a stack of papers. It took an entire five minutes.

"He's here, I've got him. Go to room 403, fourth floor, third door to your left."

Draco didn't spare her a second glance, and made his way over to the dilapidated staircase. The stairs were filthy, and old. Cracks littered their surfaces, and worsened in severity the higher in the building he went. By the time he reached the fourth floor, small chunks of bricks were missing. Scowling, he stepped into the hall. There was another woman at a considerably shabbier desk there, this one much younger. She spared him a glance, and pointed a long nailed finger to the left. With a nod, Draco followed.

He came face to face with a long hallway, which held about ten different doors. They were white, with small, barred windows at the top. Moaning, crying, and yelling echoed off of the walls. Hesitantly, Draco approached the first door, 401, and had to stand on his toes to peek through the stained, glass window. The room could have belonged to a house elf: a small, raggedy bed, a lone dresser, and a tiny, brick sized window. He squinted in an attempt to read the messy writing on the far wall, when suddenly he yelled louder than any of the crazies there. A pair of glazed, brown eyes stared back at him from the other side of the small, barred window.

"You decrepit old fool," Draco muttered darkly, while swiftly turning on his heel.

It was a maneuver he'd copied from his father. The expression on his face was murderous; behind him, his robes swung thunderously. He entirely bypassed room 402 and paused in front of 403. Written on a folder next to the door was: POTTER, HARRY. Breathing in deeply, Draco knocked on the door, before realizing where he was. A psychopath like Potter wouldn't be allowed to open his room door freely, would he? He reached for the knob. It was difficult to turn, and the door creaked loudly in its hinges. The sound was like that of nails on a chalkboard, and it set Draco's teeth on edge.

Stepping into the room, Draco grimaced. Unlike room 401, this one did not have a bed. Potter's mattress was thrown on the floor: stained, and filthy. The place was like a cesspool of germs, and he found himself wrinkling his nose at the boy's prone form sprawled across the ground. He couldn't blame him; if he'd had to call that pathetic excuse of a mattress a bed, the floor would've seemed a tantalizing option to him, too.

"Potter," Draco drawled, closing the door behind him with a resounding click.

Potter didn't waver; he didn't move. He didn't acknowledge him at all. Draco frowned, and walked up to his side. His powdery green eyes were wide, bloodshot, and unfocused. On his neck, there was a towelette caked with dry, flaky blood. It was vile. Draco sucked his teeth, before hauling him up. His arm was bony enough for Draco two wrap his entire hand around.

"Potter," he called out, firmly.

Still, no answer.

"Potter!" he spoke louder this time.

" _Harry_."

Finally, those wide eyes flickered, and lost some of that far-gone quality that made Draco want to walk away out of sheer frustration.

"You're a mess," Draco shook his shoulder, trying to wake him further. "Come on, snap out of it."

Potter's head lolled to the side like that of a puppet cut off of its strings. Draco nearly dropped him, if not for the vice-like grip he held on his arm. What in the world was wrong with him?

"Pot-" he stopped himself. " _Harry_ , did they inject you again?"

Bloody muggles, and their bloody barbaric drugs. He couldn't just leave him like this, though. Breathing out through his nose, Draco braced himself. Brashly, he dragged Harry across the floor, and threw him unceremoniously onto the stained mattress. It gave a painful creak; his head bounced off of it like a ball. That had to hurt. Draco didn't care. That was the first and last time he'd ever lower himself to do a servant's work.

Sitting on the floor, he leaned his elbows on his knees, and fought to catch his breath. That took more strength than he'd care to admit. His shoulders rose and fell in tandem with his labored breathing. Cold, grey eyes roamed over Harry's hooded figure. That blood-crusted towelette was still on his neck. Perhaps, it'd be better to take it off now that he wouldn't feel it, right? Reaching over lazily, Draco took off his black, leather gloves, and tossed them somewhere behind him. Scooting closer, he grabbed a corner of the paper, and slowly peeled it off.

A pained hiss escaped through Potter's teeth, and his forehead wrinkled in a frown. Draco was sporting a frown of his own as the thing came off with a final tug at Potter's skin. Small bits of the paper remained rebelliously stuck onto the larger cuts. Unsurprisingly, his neck was covered in scars - no feat, really, considering the way he constantly clawed at himself. Draco narrowed his eyes in thought. Either he left Potter to clean his own wounds, or he could filthy own his hands dealing with them. The choice was obvious. He sat back, and stared at the wall.

"Why are you wearing a dresth- a _dress_?" Potter's weak voice cut through the silence.

Draco's eyes snapped onto him immediately. He still looked as loony as ever; had he been aware of his surroundings the entire time?

"What in the world do you mean?" he asked, colder than he'd intended.

"That dress.. the black one," Potter's voice turned small, almost frightened.

Draco rolled his eyes. Alright, he'd be nice.

"These are _robes_ ," his voice was notably not as mean. "All wizards wear them."

"Oh.."

There was silence, then - the awkward sort. Draco tapped a rhythm with his shoes on the floorboards. Harry still looked as if he were flying on a cloud. That reminded him..

"Did the muggles drug you again?"

Potter seemed to flinch away from him, then, and turned over onto his side. With his back facing Draco, he shook his head 'no' silently. His hair grew even messier as it rubbed against the mattress, but even then, he muttered to himself, "I lied."

He _did_ get injected, then.

"W- why did you come back?" Harry spoke after a while. He took his hand, and brought it up to his hair. Slowly, he started to scratch at his scalp.

Draco looked down at his hands.

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "Why did you kill the muggle?"

Harry's hand tightened cruelly around his black locks of hair. His arm shook lightly from the ferocity of it. It seemed he didn't like that question..

"Tom says to tell you that it's none of your business," his voice was cold, and emotionless.

Draco made sure his sneer was audible in his reply, "Well tell Tom that if it weren't for me, you would've bloody well gotten caught."

This wasn't true, and he knew it, but he'd be damned if he let Potter's imaginary friend get the upper hand on him.

Harry let out a pained yell after that. He clutched at his head, while furiously muttering incoherently. Helplessly, he seemed to kick his legs. Whatever this 'Tom' character was, it was able to cause Harry pain.

Draco felt mildly unsettled. This was the first time he'd ever seen anybody hurt themselves. Quirking a weary brow, he waited long minutes until his new acquaintance settled down.

"It's your turn," he said, ignoring the way Harry had gone completely still - stiller than any ten year old should be able to.

"My turn.. for _what_?" his voice was darker now, harsher.

"Ask me a question," Draco muttered, while laying back on the floor, and staring up at the cracked paint on the ceiling. He stretched himself out like a starfish.

In that moment, his parents, friends, and tutors seemed to melt away. All that existed was that isolated, hospital room, and the enigma which was Harry Potter.

"How old are you?"

"I'm ten."

Draco mulled over his next question. What did he want to know?

"When did you come here?" he gestured vaguely with his hand, although he was sure Potter couldn't see it. "To this mental hospital, I mean."

"When I was five," Harry answered.

Half his life, huh?

"What is it.. what's it like out there?" Harry asked him; his voice was still strained. "What's it like to be free?"

Draco pondered the question, before answering honestly.

"I never leave my house," he licked his lips. "I wouldn't know."

"Your turn.."

"Who were you with before you came here?" Draco asked, he turned his gaze from the ceiling, and looked at Harry.

"The Dursley's.." there was a pause, "They're my aunt and uncle, and they _hated_ magic."

"Then how did you know about The Dark Lord?" Draco pressed. He was being a prat about it, pushing Harry despite the pain he had just been in, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He wanted to know.

"...Tom told me."

Draco's body involuntarily shivered. Wasn't Tom.. imaginary? If Potter had been clueless about the wizarding world, then how could a figment of his imagination possibly know about it? A cold feeling settled over him.

"Are you - are you my.. _friend_?" Potter asked, vulnerably. His voice was no louder than a whisper.

Draco opened his mouth, hesitated, and closed it again. He tried to quell his childish fears, along with any thoughts of Tom. He had never had a friend before. He associated with the other pureblood children only because his parents told him to; they were not truly his friends. Tapping his fingers on the ground in confusion, he spoke, "I think so."

Harry stayed quiet at this.

"I've never had one," Draco elaborated. "But I suppose we are friends."

He felt eyes staring at him. When he turned, Potter was looking at him with that far off gaze again.

" _Friends_?"

"...Friends."

.

 **Psychosis**


End file.
